We play popcorn with me in the middle. But their feather weights barely bounce me from the mat. My son laughs uproariously at my slightest movement. My daughter giggles with delight and plays with my toboggan (or knit cap as my Sweet Yankee calls it).
Despite their flesh born sin they laugh easily, having not yet acquired the habit of not laughing. They hope easily, having not yet acquired the habit of doubting. They bounce high, their troubles forgotten for the moment. They want to love easily, having not yet acquired the habit of pulling away. They trust easily, having not acquired the habit of holding hurts like treasures and fear like a shield.
Their laughter swirls around my anxiety and floats away into the wind, a fragrant offering. Joy in the midst of death...decaying leaves, dormant life and quiet forest. Joy in the midst of the aching. God in the flesh. Light in the dark. Love in a hurting world.
We also clean a mouldering horse stall, gather hay for the bunny and sawdust for its pen, hand pick grass that is just out of the draft horse's reach, we pet her velvety nose and scratch under her forelock in the weak winter sun. I take picture of the kids petting the Australian Sheperd and enjoying the peacefulness that eminates from him-showing us how to be and simply enjoy the moment. Existing in the presence. Casting our cares.
When I turn indoors and the whines and siblings squabbles threaten to overwhelm me, I'll remember this moment- a wonderful combination of static and rosy cheeks and runny noses and laughter. I'll remember the smell of the horse and the gentle way the dog lay his head on my little girl's lap, and my son's tentative enjoyment of the animals. I'll remember the quiet lessons and grab onto them with my mind and hold on. And if I forget by tomorrow I'll get the kids out in God's creation again and help myself remember once more.
